


Second Solstice

by The_Amarathine_Carrion



Series: Omega Sylvain Week 2020 [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Beta Hubert, Butt Plugs, Choking, Dom Hubert von Vestra, E-stim, M/M, Masochism, Minor Injuries, Non-Consensual Bondage, Omega Sylvain, Overstimulation, Prisoner of War, Rare Pairings, Sadism, Unplanned Pregnancy, Watersports, quick mention of knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24043174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Amarathine_Carrion/pseuds/The_Amarathine_Carrion
Summary: Many months have passed since the war’s end, but Hubert has no intentions of releasing his prisoner.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Series: Omega Sylvain Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1728082
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42
Collections: Omega Sylvain Week





	Second Solstice

**Author's Note:**

> Omega Sylvain Week day 5 - prompt: accident

Hubert exits the Cathedral with an internal fury rapidly boiling toward bloodlust. There were too many reasons why he could not stand another moment in that detestable service. Too many reasons. Too many hymns and proverbs grating on his nerves. He could not think clearly in such an atmosphere. Fortunately, his feet are familiar enough with the cobblestoned pathways to allow his mind the momentary lapse. Unfortunately, even as he wandered, his mood remained rather dour.

The most reproachable time of the year had come. The Ethereal moon. The month in which it’s said that the  _ Goddess  _ prays to men for peace. 

It’s not the cold, or the layers of unammusing irony that vex him. It is the way the sun drags across the skyline, and time seems to pass twice as slow. It is the lure of his spirit, breaking against barriers that were the only foundation left from when his soul was blameless. It is where it seems that shadows bleed their way into dusk, twisting into the horns of his hair. Must be the witchcraft of the second solstice.

What a ridiculous notion.  _ The Goddess prays.  _ Men do not listen. They will not listen, no matter how long you intend to stretch time out. The pull of Hubert’s mouth is as thin as his patience as he stops to rest his wrist against his forehead. The sun burning his eyes is a deterrent, and he has every right to despise it. 

Warm. It was too warm for winter. Furthermore, today fell during the week of Saint Cichol and the holiday did nothing but remind him of that insufferable bastard, Ferdinand. 

The name alone made his head hurt. Hubert’s fingers are unusually tight, twitching to curl upward into a fist. He uses them to tug at his collar instead— stepping through a half destroyed arch just beyond the graveyard to descend a creaky staircase. It brings him deep underground Garreg Mach—to a place many only whispered in rumors and swore did not exist.

Hubert had not always been fond of the dark.

There is a time he hardly recalls—a matte memory—when the world was fresh with snow. It only comes in flashes now—the biting cold, an ornate candelabrum, the darkness diminishing under flames that seemed as if they could consume anything that came close. Once she was taken, there was nowhere. And with nowhere, nothing. With nothing, no one. But Hubert lived—and he learned—darkness begets the stage of creation. 

There were a great many things that could only be accomplished in the dark. There were things Hubert was innately fit for, then there were things he had to suffer to grow to respect. Eventually, he grew to be respected. Eventually, he grew to see through man’s every shadow.

He’s fortunate now, to have adjusted to it. 

His prisoner, not as much.

Hubert sees his hair before his body emerges. It’s a vermillion light parting the fog that lifts the longer he stays, and threatens to close the path behind him. Sylvain’s handsome features fall slowly into place, until all of him is bare and honest. The more times Hubert visited him in this state, the less excuses he could come up with to avoid staring.

Truly pitiful.

The whore was reacting as if he were in heat. 

“What a waste you are.” Hubert simpers. Sylvain shuffles against his restraints, already eager. The Omega begins to purr, despite the oppressive atmosphere, body tingling as if he were under some invisible touch. Five words was all it took for his consciousness to devolve into base instinct. 

“You had such an intriguing mind.” The Beta continues, as if he does not notice the blatant signals Sylvain was flinging at him like the commoner prostitutes of Enbarr. Ignoring Sylvain was a penalty in itself and the simplest of all his methods. So quickly Sylvain becomes consumed by desperation in Hubert’s presence when he cannot garner the attention he desires. It was a shame, Hubert sometimes thought, that he could no longer make use of Sylvain’s other assets while he rolled him smaller and smaller— until all that was left of Gautier’s most valuable broodmare fit into the palm of his hand. 

Sylvain truly had the most incredible insight— something unexpected from how he presented himself, but Hubert knew upon their first encounter to look twice. During the traitorous turn at the Tailteann Plains, he was the only one Hubert allowed to survive. He did not know how to describe the reasoning behind the decision — other than a compulsion to shelter the Omega, to take his body and break all of the bones that denied him within it, to dig up his heart and eat it rare.

To have him. Own him. Breed him full.

Hubert answered the call.

He answers it again and again, firm fingers leaving bruises in the same places he’s frequented all other times he took delight in him. Sylvain’s body always runs hot enough that it can be felt through his gloves. It is like there is nothing separating their skin. He’s so still for Hubert, now that he is touching him. He doesn’t have to be told anymore. Sylvain knows he’s no good. 

Oh— he smells of hickory and peppercorn. There was a biting undertone to Sylvain’s nectar. So mouthwatering, so  _ fresh _ . Hubert runs his palms over the arch of Sylvain’s neck. His fingers brush against the still fading mark he left. It was supposed to be anywhere but that. 

Sylvain was not ever intended to be his mate, merely his plaything. 

A soft whimper. Sylvain is begging him already. He’s moments away from his lips forming names. It’s pathetic. Hubert had hardly indulged him in so long, and he still could not cull this disobedience into something worth having.

Someone worth having.

It. That...creation of his. He still could not be sure. It wasn’t wise to run tests— not yet, anyhow. No. What he was here to do instead was to administer punishment. 

“Don’t waste any more of my time.” 

They couldn’t return him like this—to whoever was left—after all. Not the sole crest-bearing heir of Gautier. What would they think of him, had they known what he’d become? No one had seen Sylvain succumb to the terror of darkness. No one could bring him to the depths of his depravity as he had. 

“Beg.”

He steps forward. The clacks of his shoes match the hitching of Sylvain’s breath. 

“Beg.”

He says, again, placing his fingers under Sylvain’s chin and tipping it upward. Causally. He was in no hurry. Sylvain would break eventually. 

He kisses him, frigid lips like a wraith. 

Sylvain’s jaw drops open, his hot mouth blowing tuffs of stale air into Hubert’s face, panting like a dog desperate to be mounted. Such behavior was reprehensible. That is what had landed him in this predicament in the first place. The harlot of house Gautier had somehow sunk his claws into him, convinced Hubert to give him his seed, whereas truly, Sylvain was hardly fit to even cling to his pant leg. 

To prove his point, his hold on Sylvain’s chin expands and tightens. A small choking noise interrupts the panting. Such a sound doesn’t draw Hubert’s attention anymore. He’s heard much worse—and much better—admissions come from his prisoners. Admissions that are worth chasing. 

He would not forget the purpose of his concentration. Sylvain was at his most beautiful, broken. 

There was a word for it in Dagda—  _ Kintsukuroi.  _ Shamir introduced the concept to him upon their return from Derdriu. Something that is damaged should not be thrown away, but rather repaired— with expensive materials, even. It becomes unique. It develops a history. That is how you increase its value.

Sylvain was worthless to the Empire now that Faerghus had been obliterated, but Hubert intended to keep him nevertheless. There are still ways Sylvain can be of use.

“What do we say?” Hubert’s breath tickles the shadow of Sylvain’s chin. It was within the last week, he recalls, that he brought the straight razor down the planes of the Omega’s face, until he stopped with the edge pointing against his neck. A single drop of blood is enough for testing purposes, but for Sylvain one of anything would never be enough. He’d pressed harder against it, not even noticing, or perhaps caring, how quickly the sharp steel dug into his skin, so preoccupied as he was by his eyes rolling toward the back of his head.

And they called Hubert sadistic. 

“Please.” Sylvain’s eyes are shining in his greedy sockets. Those eyes, Hubert loved, for the simple pleasure of disgracing them. A little hope before the despair was foundational. A little hope was necessary. That was an important step lesser men often skipped. They foolishly blamed their subjects for their own failure.

“Please, what?” Hubert dips a thumb into his mouth cruelly, probing his tongue, wetting the fabric with spit. Sylvain sucks it like the squealing infant he is, horrendous sounds that should not cause Hubet’s innards to tremble. The leap of hunger he experiences is not the pride of a doting Beta excited at the prospect of pleasing their mate; it is the pride of possession. There is no space he cannot invade. Sylvain is his. 

Sylvain attempts to respond. He cannot, of course, but it amuses Hubert to see anyway, so he allows it to continue. The Omega gags and gasps and the sweet smell becomes a perfume that hazes Hubert. He hears Sylvain’s legs shuffling. He can imagine the heat down there even as he works the heat of Sylvain’s mouth open with a vicious vigor. He can practically taste the slick on his own tongue.

Why must he be so intoxicating?

Hubert retreats, as much to calm his heart as to remind Sylvain that he can do so at any time. Sylvain’s lone responsibility was to accept all of Hubert’s decisions. Hubert took the authority quite seriously. There were a great number of things to take, and things to give.

Of course, now that Sylvain is free to talk, he refuses. Hubert’s temple throbs. He was not here to play games. Long gone were the days of the Garreg Mach Chess Club. 

Patience. He must remain patient. If there was one thing he could count on, it was the urgency of the depraved to be degraded.

“Please…” Again, Sylvain whimpers, but it is not what he really wishes to say, so Hubert ignores it. He can watch Sylvain’s descent into desperation comfortably from here. Sylvain cannot see him at all with the low light and limited range of mobility. Hubert’s eyes glide over the evidence of matters he had settled by using Sylvain’s body in his previous visits.

The bulge was so slight, you could miss it if you turned but a hair’s width in another direction. From the edge of the shadows he studies Sylvain— lets his eyes adjust to the low curve of milky white skin, just beginning to stretch in a way that would alert the world to his condition. It’s mesmerizing. Truly Sylvain makes for a fascinating subject, particularly so when he’s restrained like this.

“ _ Hubert”,  _ He moans this time, a little hiccup at the end of the rising inflection. “Please, take it out. I need  _ you _ .  _ Please.” _

And there it is. Partially, at least. Sylvain uses his name so casually— that saccharine timbre to it. He does so to tempt Hubert to remind him of his place. Even now, as he should be thinking of caring for his body, he seeks destruction. The wretched thing insists on being wrecked.

Hubert sighs, but he complies with coming closer, and only that for the time being. Sylvain’s breathing accelerates at the swish of his very first step and that is a noteworthy fact for Hubert to remember. He lets the fire of irrefutable veneration lead him, and by the time he is slipping his gloves off and running the blackened tips of his fingers over the Omega’s knees to dig into the softened, weakened flesh of his thighs, Hubert’s body blazes just as feverishly as Sylvain’s.

His legs are parted  _ just enough  _ for Hubert to slide his hands through. He’s positioned perfectly for the time being, but there’s plenty of room to adjust him further, should their future activities call for it. Hubert lifts his gaze to the swell of the Omega’s stomach. If he pushes Sylvain’s hips up, the small bulge will become even more apparent. Hubert cups it, internally humming, his brain buzzing like a beehive at the thought. 

Suddenly it is all he has, that singular thought, where before there were many— meticulously organized. 

“ _ Hubert _ .” Sylvain whispers—too husky—too soft for Hubert’s liking. Sylvain was still under the impression that he could coax whatever he wanted from him if he behaved. This was not supposed to be about pleasure— for either of them. He should rectify that miscommunication immediately. 

“Quiet.” Hubert’s own voice reflects the demand. Volume is unnecessary when the center of one’s universe settles between their thighs. He yanks them apart and lifts them, pushing back until Sylvain is indistinguishable from a line of Omega slaves, impatient for their turn to be bred. Easing his forearm—crooked at the elbow—into the back of his knees to hold Sylvain in place, Hubert flits his fingers over the swollen hole that pulses for his attention. He passes it over, continuing toward the rim below it instead.

Sylvain tenses, knowing what is to come next— knowing, and yet, never being able to fully prepare for it. The hum of vibration from the plug in his ass is a constant, low, thrumming that is set to increase upon proximity to Hubert. It has remained—deep and tight and effective—inside since the beginning of Sylvain’s captivity, and will likely only die alongside him. 

Hubert presses a single finger to the flattened circle, eyes boring graves into Sylvain’s flushed, terrified face. An electrical current sparks at the connection, temporarily illuminating the space he’s invaded. Sylvain’s ass, mottled with varying shades of bruises and still oozing wounds—unable to heal due to the lack of care and malnutrition—is revealed, but Hubert pays it no mind, having already memorized their pattern. The shape of Sylvain’s mouth forming his painful cries, the flare of his nose sure to make him lightheaded from the loss of oxygen, his eyes raw and scrunched and dry from dehydration— these were the sights Hubert craved.

Sylvain howls, and Hubert presses harder, slick pouring out from the Omega’s upper hole to coat the back of the Beta’s hand. It was disgusting how aroused Sylvain still became while so obviously fearful. It was disgusting indeed, but Hubert could not deny he was likewise depraved. His cock twitches in his pants as he sniffs at the rich musk of arousal overtaking the foul dungeon air. Fear was one of the stronger scents an Omega released, and for that reason, many Alphas in this line of work required blockers before they proceeded to torture. Hubert’s nose was not as sharp, and yet, he delighted in the smell of fear more than anything else; perhaps that is why he took so well to the job. 

Perhaps that is why he is so insistent on chasing it to the precipice of madness. 

“You are nothing but a festering cockroach.”

Hubert wants to spit on his face, but not  _ quite  _ yet; years of temperance have paid off in this moment. He compromises by adding another finger against the wide circle. He doesn’t need to press harder. Sylvain would only get what he was after, then. Pleasure was not something Sylvain deserved to anticipate, it was for Hubert to take at his discretion, once he decided he was bored of toying with him. 

“ _ Please, Hubert, please! _ ” Sylvain’s sandpaper sobs are loud, and just as unwarranted as the rest of him, but— _ ah— _ he will never tire of the way Sylvain shatters in his hands. Hubert can almost see it; he can imagine the way Sylvain’s eyes would look if they had any moisture left to give him— his wet lashes spreading tears like a clothesline along his face as he whips his head back and forth, banging it against the table as soon as Hubert slides his cock in. Hubert shivers, against his better judgement, and removes his fingers. Sylvain’s holes twitch, yearning for more stimulation. Hubert, still holding Sylvain’s knees back with one arm to expose him, uses his remaining hand to free the fastenings of his pants.

Here in the dark, he does not need to imagine. Here, his fantasties shape reality. 

The head of his cock is dripping in response to Sylvain’s anguish. Hubert nudges it against the plug, firmer then he had with his fingers. The resulting shock that passes between them is enough to wind him from the outside, and all the more so stunning when it rolls through Sylvain’s body, arching into a silent scream.

“ _ Yes,”  _ Sylvain moans, “ _ finally...  _ Hubert, I— _ ” _

Hubert slaps him. The silence that follows accentuates the crack he’s certain is ringing through the Omega’s ears, twice as loud and just as heavy. Sylvain’s breathing is slow and serious, his chest jerking in little layers of lamentation. These are the truest of all his testimonies. This is the sound of Sylvain breaking.

“Did you expect anything else by demanding?” 

Sylvain does not respond, which is exactly the response Hubert is looking for. No more resistance. No begging. Just a doll to be fucked. A hole to be used. 

_ A business transaction of sorts _ , he reasons, as he pushes himself between Sylvain’s slit, sinking into the hilt. It took months of effort for Hubert to train him how to lie here— lifeless. Hours upon hours of his life that he cannot gain back. Hours that were stolen from Emperor Edelgard— an investment that he would not even consider if he were any less than positive the debt would be repaid.

So, he takes him, with a singular purpose. Hubert releases his thighs, fully confident that Sylvain will remain pliant. He crawls on top of him, caring nothing about avoiding the injuries that range across the map of Sylvain’s body. He presses his palm into the raised bump that is his cock meeting the swell of a new life he owns as well. Sylvain lips are disconnected, drooling unrestrainedly. A squeak escapes them, though his eyes remain glassy and unfocused— far away from all that will occur from now on.

There is only one thing Hubert enjoys more than the smell of an Omega’s fear, and that is the victory of their surrender. 

He rolls his hips, harshly, fervently, eager to unload. Sylvain goes with him, garbling strangled noises while he tries to clutch on to the air. Hubert slaps him again, causing his face to ricochet off the cold, hard surface, growling, and though he lacks the authority of an Alpha’s pheromones to amplify it, Sylvain’s arms fall to his sides to be maneuvered with the rest of his body at the force of the Beta’s merciless thrusts. 

The hand still stinging with the weight of his command finds purchase on the bob of Sylvain’s throat. Sylvain arches into the palm, foolish masochist that he is, and wheezes even before the constriction comes. Hubert grunts in satisfaction, pressing harder into his abdomen as well— nails digging into the unnaturally tightened flesh there. Sylvain is so wet below him that he is no longer sure if he can locate the distinction of slick and blood, but it’s of no real importance— not when he adjusts his angle so that his balls are smacking against the flat of the plug, sending waves of electricity through them. 

Sylvain’s entire body pulsates with overstimulation, flopping indiscriminately even under the restriction of Hubert pinning him, along with his bindings. The whites of his eyes accompanied by intermittent, hoarse gasps cause Hubert’s stomach to flood with heat. If there were ever a moment he could be caught calling Sylvain beautiful, truthfully it would be here— on the verge of unconsciousness, completely malleable, still ever as trusting. 

But Hubert knows this vision is nothing— compared to what will come. 

Sylvain’s lower half squirms and arches despite his utter devotion to subservience. Hubert knows what it means, and he does not admonish him, but encourages it— picking up the pace. The slap of his balls against Sylvain’s hole is deafening with little other noise to interrupt it. The satisfaction of silence during their sessions is a non-negotiable rule— one of the first in Hubert’s very long line of lessons. 

He loosens his grip slightly to see it obeyed. Instead of the jagged gasps Hubert is expecting, Sylvain gurgles, spit foaming over his lips like a fountain. The noise is repulsive, so Hubert fully releases the hold on his throat. There is no respite to be had for the Omega, however. He immediately yanks at Sylvain’s hair, using it as leverage to spear all the more into him.

Sylvain is so tight around him, that if he were not leaking with Hubert’s every thrust, the speed and the depth would be impossible. As it is, his swollen lips threaten to catch Hubert at the base, knot or not, and the overwhelming  _ fullness  _ of it all is tipping him precariously at the edge. 

“Come then, Whore of Faerghus.” Hubert pants, feeling the heat concentrate too intensely to be ignored and wanting the constriction of Sylvain’s walls to carry him over. “Before I change my mind.” 

He reaches underneath Sylvain with bloodied fingers, pushing his legs back as far as they can go. Hubert buries himself deep and sits there in the incredible warmth of Sylvain’s cunt. The head of his cock is punishing against Sylvain’s cervix, and the position sparks wave after wave of electricity through the continuous contact of Hubert’s skin.

Warm liquid spurts around Hubert’s groin, sudden and forceful. The source of the pressure is too high to be slick or come, and the acrid smell gives it away immediately. Sylvain releases a single, long sigh— something that sounds less of relief and more of acceptance. Both holes tighten and Hubert is so lost in his own release that he does nothing to forbid Sylvain’s urine to continue saturating his thighs and smalls—the latter now straining under the liquid’s weight—threatening to stick to the table. 

Hubert breathes, or tries to—because honestly, the stench is vile. He leans away from it, sliding out, avoiding the use of his hands until he is certain nothing more will defile them. Grimacing down first at his soaked appearance, he glares at Sylvain, still twitching as if from the aftermath of a seizure.

He glares, and then, he proceeds to turn. The soft clacking of his heels serve as the only farewell Sylvain will receive. Without even a budding urge to look once over his shoulder, ascending from darkness back into the day, Hubert leaves Sylvain lying helplessly in his puddle of piss and come. 

Until tomorrow, that is.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thefriedpipes)! Come talk more about fe3h with me 🤗


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